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Drag Me to Hell

Bomb Rating:

Note: give any disgusting one-eyed old lady with a Hungarian accent who puts her filthy dentures on your desk whatever the fuck she wants.

Who says you can’t go home? I do.

"Drag Me to Hell" represents the return of director Sam Raimi to the shire…the stooge-laden, inside joke-ridden, demon puke-soaked shire which spawned both his career and an incantation assuring eternal celibacy for all who utter it: “You gotta be shitting me; you haven’t seen Evil Dead?!?!” And by the looks of this foolish thing, he should have sent Samwise with a fucking postcard instead.

With trillions of dollars made filming a gay guy in Underoos commercials, Sam the Sham has built a pile of money so high on which to sleep that he can no longer hear the nyuk-nyuks of all of those virgin sycophants crying for yet another gorefest starring offbeat anti-heroes and evil specters dancing as he dozes.

And what’s a master of comedic horror to live for once the cheering, acned avante-garde has gone silent? Me? I’d say an ocean view from Malibu, waxed starlets, and clean heroin would do. Then again I am a simple man, and only a master of the oboe.

But for Raimi the answer is, “not much.” Tripping the high life among those anti-christs manning the Hollywood blockbuster factory has not done much for the guy’s mojo apparently, because even with all that juice he still saddles us with a PG-13 rating and no friggin’ nudity. WHY IS THIS?!?!?!

I dunno, but in this hideous little fable about absurd consequences for minor karmic infractions a pretty young bank loan officer denies a nasty old woman yet another month to pay her delinquent mortgage. Although the brown-toothed woman has as much chance of repaying the loan as Bill O'Reilly does of not killing himself someday, it is still within cutiepie's power to grant the extension. However, "circumstances beyond her control" have conspired to turn the folksy little thing into a stiletto-wielding miniTrump hell-bent (muahahahaha!) on winning the assistant bank manager’s position over some ass-kissing crybaby angling to steal it. And her mother-in-law-to-be hates her. Well I hate her, too. So, it came as a delight to me that she has picked the wrong eastern-bloc, gypsy femmepire to throw out on the street.

Note: give any disgusting one-eyed old lady with a Hungarian accent who puts her filthy dentures on your desk whatever the fuck she wants, otherwise she’s almost definitely gonna sick either the devil or her 75 indigent grandkids on your ass. I digress…

Naturally, the crazy old bag throws a curse, one which will put blondie in H-E-double hockeysticks after 3 days. Meantime, the shadow of some goat legs will fuck with her head. (The devil will be with you shortly, please stay on the line. Your soul is important to us.) And the only people who can possibly help are her weak-ass boyfriend, an easily spooked Indian (with a dot) psychic, her as-yet-unsacrificed kitten, and an old lady who’s dealt poorly with this sort of thing in the past and so requires 10,000 bucks to...I dunno…NOT do what she did the first time?

Anyhow, the usual Raimi stupidity ensues, demons dance like Shemp on fire, a corpse is exhumed and defiled, some hardcore girl-on-gypsy beatdowns go down, and every nasty thing on earth somehow ends up in the cute chick’s mouth. All this (and no god-damned boobs!) because the broad (read: Raimi) had enough sense to deny the gypsy credit, but was too thick to pin the deal on Citigroup. Which is just as well. I mean, if a bunch of undead skeletons marched on Wall Street tomorrow the brokers would only think it was their mistresses coming by for some shopping money anyhow. Friggin’ skinny bitches ruin everything.